Slow Witted: Amusing Tales for the Subtle Humored
by Pellakanoiel
Summary: A series of oneshots featuring various characters in amusing situations. Third Story: The unknown tale of Denethor's hatred for his second son is revealed.
1. Of Dead Kings and Dwarf Belching

Disclaimer: Pel and Tel own nothing in this whole wide world. This should inspire pity, not anger at their pathetic borrowing of characters greater than themselves. Only Tolkien and New Line Cinema can claim ownership over the following characters and places.

Hey, does anyone remember us? Probably not. We're Pel and Tel! We wrote two stories about a year ago, called "The Truth Behind the Fellowship" and "Boromir and Sally". Unfortunately, both were in script format, and taken off of the site quite quickly. We were very sad, and it has taken us a long time to recover. Now we're back, with what we hope will become a humorous series of one-shots. We hope you'll tolerate any inconsistencies with characters, places, objects, or adjectives. Review and tell us if you liked it or didn't. It takes a lot to hurt our feelings.

The following is an (hopefully) amusing tale of Eomer in the days right after Sauron's defeat. The amusement pills should kick in right around the end….

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As yet another loud roar of approval rose from the assembled crowd of villagers, Eomer, nephew of the late King Theoden, thought fondly of his quiet and comfortable bed. Unfortunately, his bed was as unlikely a goal as victory over Lord Sauron had once been. 

'Who knew peace would be so loud?' the young warrior questioned himself wryly. The surprised joy and energy of the people could be felt in every corner of the great hall. No one had truly expected to see another happy moment in their lives. After King Theoden had been put under Saruman's thrall, it had seemed only a matter of time before the fall of the once great kingdom of Rohan. It was only thanks to two very small hobbits that any bit of excitement and happiness was left within Middle Earth.

So, of course, to properly show their gratitude to the small heroes, the people of Rohan were drinking and eating as much as they possibly could. The hobbits would have completely approved of being honored in such a fashion.

Eomer knew, deep within his heart, that everyone around him was mourning the loss of their leader, King Theoden. Such a death could not pass unnoticed. However, he could not help but feel bitter over the smiling faces about him. Didn't these people know how to properly mourn the dead? Could they show no respect at all? If his Uncle had been killed in a time of peace, the grief would have been overwhelming to all. A parade would have been held, stories would have been told, and the King would have been correctly mourned and put to rest with his ancestors. Lord Sauron, it seemed, had managed to change even the most ancient of traditions.

Suddenly the crowd grew quiet as yet another man stood up with his glass held high. Eomer tried his very best not to sigh at the ridiculous gesture. Eloquent and well- spoken words could not change what was, nor what had been. They were, in the eyes of the seasoned fighter, a waste of precious time and breath. The only good part of the entire thing was being allowed to take yet another swig of the intoxicating liquid that filled his cup.

Although he found speeches quite boring, Eomer suddenly found himself paying attention once he realized that the man about to speak was Faramir, son of the late Denethor. Being no fool, Eomer had recognized the young man's affection for his sister Eowyn early on. It was well known that both Denethor and Boromir had held certain unsavory character traits. It was unclear as of yet if the youngest son shared any similarities with his dead relatives. Eomer planned to keep a close eye on him, so that he might deal with the man efficiently later on.

To his credit, Faramir realized that his every move was being watched carefully. Eowyn had already warned him that her brother was not necessarily the most friendly of men. Denethor's insanity was no secret, which meant Faramir had even more ground to gain than before. It had been that fact that had driven him to stand in front of this crowd of overly exuberant villagers and propose a toast to their difficult past, their great country, and their bright future. Now, as he reached the end of his speech, Faramir knew that his next words would have to be very carefully chosen.

"This land was founded upon strength and courage. It is kept still today by the very same strength and courage, which runs swiftly within the blood of your leaders. King Theoden and his forefathers took care of their people with both wisdom and justice. They were impressive men who took charge in difficult and dark times. Though they have left a vast and imposing challenge upon the shoulders of their beloved decendant, I've no doubt in my mind that the new King will make them proud." At this, Faramir paused briefly and looked around at the crowd of hopeful people around them. He truly believed they were in fair and capable hands. "To the new King!" he shouted with a smile. It was soon followed by the echoed sentiments of the people, as well as much drinking and laughter.

Deep within his own thoughts, Eomer barely noticed the smug smile his sister was sending his way. She clearly was very impressed with Faramir's little announcement. He had been too, up until Faramir had mentioned the new king. Now Eomer's thoughts had once again turned dark and foreboding. Who really knew if the new king would be a good one? Just because he had royal blood in his veins didn't mean he'd make a good leader. Perhaps he would be terrible. What did it matter to them, so long as he was related to men that they had loved and respected? The villagers' loyalties were easily won with cheap words and flashy gestures. They knew no better.

'Theodred would have been a good king. Perhaps even a great one,' Eomer brooded angrily. As always, too much drink led him to the same conclusion he had reached ever since the death of his cousin. Theodred had died too young, and it should have been himself instead. His cousin was the son of a king, destined to manage the powerful country laid out before him. As his cousin, Eomer had been destined to follow behind his king and guard him with his life. Fate, it seemed, found it all too amusing to cause discord and strife. Theodred had not been a prince to the orcs, nor had he been one to Death. He had simply been another man whose time had come before he had even had the chance to prove himself worthy of the life he had been given. Now Eomer was forced to live a life not originally meant for him. He was sure he would destroy the entire kingdom.

"Here's to the new king," he mumbled under his breath, followed by a laugh filled with irony and loathing. Before he could slip into complete self-pity, he was grabbed by the arm and rather unceremoniously yanked up from his seat.

"You are not going to spend the entire night sitting here by yourself! You must laugh, jest, and dance. Show the people that you are as hopeful as they." Eomer tried to give his little sister a smile, but found the task somewhat beyond his ability. How much had he had to drink this evening?

Eowyn, being neither patient nor very sympathetic, tried to march her brother off to the middle of the room for a dance. However, the moment she started moving forward, all of her brother's weight began to shift and slide so that it was bearing down upon her. A few quick steps back and a shove to the shoulder had her brother in an upright position once again. The bright and strong-willed woman prepared to scold her brother for his immaturity when, much to her horror and dismay, she saw Eomer start to slowly tip backwards.

Eomer, who was quite unsure as to why everyone was tilting and spinning so rudely, quickly grabbed onto his sister with a very firm grip. He tried his very best to pull himself into what he assumed was an upright position. Then, with no warning whatsoever, he let out a belch loud enough to shame a dwarf straight into a shocked Eowyn's face.

What little pity she may have held for her brother fled Eowyn's mind immediately. "I can not believe you are so very drunk!" she whispered fiercely in the tipsy man's ear. "You could not have possibly picked a worse night to do this. All of Rohan is looking upon us to set a good example." Eowyn stepped back and tried her best to hold a look of serenity upon her face. However, she whispered quietly to herself, "Why must we women depend upon men to always lead us? So far I have found that the lot of them are nothing but a disappointment."

"That is hardly fair," said a voice so close to her ear that it caused Eowyn to jump. She whirled around quickly and found a silly grin spreading across her lips. Faramir stood before her with a rather worried expression upon his face.

"Is your brother ill?" he asked in a hushed tone as he wrapped an arm carefully around her waist.

"Mentally, perhaps. Physically he is simply too intoxicated to stand on his own. Please, help me get him to his seat without making his condition too obvious." Eowyn and Faramir both grabbed one of Eomer's arms in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. In truth, they had to do so to keep him from falling flat on his face. They reached a chair with no incident, and Eowyn quickly handed her brother a cup of water in the hopes of flushing out the alcohol that had so easily taken command of his mind and body.

Although the situation was far from amusing, Eomer could not help but laugh. "What is the matter, sister dearest? Worried that I will embarrass us in front of the new king?"

Eowyn gave her brother a look of mixed confusion, fury, and pity. "This is no time to joke, you fool. As the new king, you must always show a dignified and proper manner."

Eomer nodded thoughtfully at this while he took a long drink of the cool and refreshing water. He soon began to choke on it, however, when a horrifying thought struck his inhibited mind.

Eowyn rushed to his side and carefully pried the cup from his grasp. "What ever is the matter, brother dearest?" she asked mockingly. "Did you just realize what a fool you have been?"

"No," Eomer said with rather large eyes. "I just realized that I am going to be the new king!"

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Review if you'd like. Hopefully you found it at least a little funny. 


	2. Of Death Plots and Bad Berries

Disclaimer: Once again, Tel and I own nothing. Thanks for brining it up! sob

Hey, hey, hey! Pel here! Woo! Look at me, writing the story and such. Actually, Tel wrote the first chapter, and I wrote this new one, but I am gonna take the credit.

Anywho..thanks to everyone who read our story, and a special thanks to those of you who reviewed. It's so gratifying to learn that someone will compliment us on something that we actually enjoy doing! So, now it's that time: SPECIAL REVIEWER THANKING TIME! cheesy music intro

Riverfox: Yes, sadly Eomer is a little slow. But at least he realized it before he did something stupid…er. Thanks for your generous comments! Keep reading!

Freelance beatnik: What, you don't celebrate death by getting smashed? You haven't lived, my friend! Lol. Kidding! Thanks and keep reading!

Meg Ishiro" Thanks! We hope the Indie film comment was a good thing. Lol. We've never seen one, but we are thinking positive! Thanks again!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and keep reading. (Tell your friends!) What? I'm not proud!

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The new king of Rohan stood proudly by a great tall oak in the middle of the forest, mentally congratulating himself for his patience. To his left, a trickling stream flowing playfully over pebbles in the bed. To his right, a small clearing within the trees where a private encampment had been pitched not an hour earlier. Two great chestnut stallions, taken straight from the fabled Rohan stables, stood tethered to a tree, grazing lazily at the silky grass.

Eomer turned when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. He met his soon-to-be brother-in-law, galloping towards him at top speed, something furry and obviously dead slung carelessly over his shoulder.

The king's eyes widened when he realized that the overly-eager Faramir was scarcely farther than one hundred yards from him, and if he didn't slow soon, would flatten Eomer; and as Uncle Theoden had constantly reminded him when he lived: lying in a heap on the ground with another man was seldom a dignified display.

"Faramir, no--!" He yelped just as his companion attempted to halt, failed dismally, and ran headlong into the king.

_How right Uncle was, _Eomer thought, recalling Theoden's advice. He picked himself up from the ground and wiped the powdery filth from his hunting garb, preparing to rebuke Faramir. He had scarcely opened his mouth, however, when his rambunctious disciple shouted, "Eomer, look! Look what I've caught! I told you I would do it, did I not?" And he dangled three freshly slain rabbits in the new king's disheveled face.

Eomer congratulated him bitterly, inwardly thinking how long the next two days would be, if he didn't take matters into his own hands. After, Eomer announced through furiously clenched teeth that they'd take up fishing next, but the anger was lost on Faramir, who was ever the willing spirit.

Fishing proved to be even more of a challenge than Eomer bargained for. Faramir was obviously not skilled in fishing, and turned our to be more of a nuisance than a pupil.

When he'd dropped his dowel into the water for the third time, Eomer lost his patience and told him Faramir to try fishing from a better angle, like an incredibly slippery and dangerous rock. Faramir complied, but to no avail. He managed somehow to keep his balance.

Sulking, Eomer and his fervent cohort made their way back to their camp, having not caught a single fish. When they returned, the king was confounded to discover that some nameless creature had pinched Faramir's rabbits.

Startlingly more hungry than he'd started off this morning, Eomer sat down against the great oak, thinking what else he could attempt to attain food.

"All right," he said finally, stirring Faramir out of a peaceful afternoon nap. "There are plentiful berries in the forest. We should be able to find some, if Fate hasn't completely abandoned us,"

They stood and walked to one edge of the clearing towards a shrub filled with familiar and plump red berries.

"Please, you go first, Faramir. We will soon be kin and must learn to be civil to one another," Eomer smiled devilishly, extending an inviting arm towards the berries.

"Oh no, I couldn't," Faramir declared. "Age before beauty, friend,"

"Just eat the berries…_brother_,"

"You're confident they are suitable for consumption?"

Eomer cocked his head to one side and gave his comrade a slightly mad sort of smile. "None safer," he lied. He had lost countless foot soldiers to these grave berries.

Faramir pulled a few berries from the branches. He popped them into his mouth as Eomer watched eagerly, waiting for Faramir's eyes to roll into his head as the tainted berries took him, but that time never came. Faramir greedily shoved handful upon handful of the delicious fruits into his gaping mouth, and all the while, Eomer looked on, stunned and still hoping against hope that a berry might lodge itself in the man's throat.

This continued for several more minutes, until suddenly a loud growling broke the monotonous gulping noises from Faramir, and both men turned to meet a furious-looking grizzly, holding in his salivating jaws the recently lifted rabbits.

Neither men knew what to do. Eomer, trying to stay in control as best he could manage, instructed his companion to stay still. Faramir however, being the reckless spirit he was, stood up and, as was his custom, charged straight for the bear, who was so startled he fled in the other direction for safety.

They stayed motionless for several long minutes, until Eomer stood and approached his associate, who eyed him wearily. Abruptly, the king embraced Faramir.

"Many thanks and great respect. Welcome to the family…brother," he announced, slightly begrudgingly.

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Review or don't. Those are pretty much your options... Oh, by the way, we want to make sure everyone understands that we realize these events are highly unlikely. But aren't they fun! 


	3. Of Jaunty Tunes and Diaries er Journals

Disclaimer: We own nothing, repeat, nothing, about this story except the plotline. And no, it didn't really happen. That part's made up. 

Hi! Pel here! Thanks to all reviewers! Sorry it took so damn long. We got…lazy. Actually, to be honest, I've had this chapter written for months, but laziness, History Day, uber-crushes, laziness, moving, laziness and broken computers contribute heavily to not having it out yet! Sorry! Again…

We rejoin our humble warrior a fortnight later, in Gondor.

Faramir, having just proven himself worthy of his love Eowyn, was feeling extremely smug and exceptionally pleased with himself.

He was whistling himself a jaunty tune as he stopped in front of an elaborately carved shelf of books, trying to pick a good story for a peaceful read.

He had just decided that perhaps now was not quite the time for reading when his youth's diary-er-journal…caught his eye. He plucked it from the shelf and plopped down onto a cozy sofa.

He flicked it open and thumbed through it dully, reading a passage here or there, when that documentation of one fateful (not to mention disturbing,) afternoon appeared.

Faramir remembered it well, though he shuddered at the recollection.

It had been nearly a decade ago, and haunted him even still, as sharply as it had when first he'd discovered it.

Reader, prepare yourself, for you are soon to realize the fateful reasoning behind the Steward of Gondor and Faramir's father, Denethor's hatred towards his youngest and rather more sensitive son. What follows is a true account of the happenings as they occurred. They have not been modified or revised in any way. This is not a tale for the faint of heart.

"The passage I am about to detail pain and trouble me, and I fear the memory may affect me for the remainder of my existence. These words are never to leave this leaf and shall be the last time I, myself, hope to look upon them.

"I fear I may not have the will to finish this tale, though I will try my very hardest to convey it to these pages, and these alone."

And so goes the tale…

"I found myself utterly at a loss for entertainment or occupation this eve, and began to wander the halls. I passed through room after droll, dull room, questing for some source of even momentary distraction.

"Hoping my father or brother may help remedy my boredom, I started toward their halls.

"When I arrived, my father's doors were closed, unusual in itself. More peculiar still, were my findings when I opened the entrance and peeked inside.

"My eyes grew wide and my cheeks hot as I searched for words, for my voice to rescue me.

"Try as I might to utter an apology for my quite humiliating invasion, I found my throat dry and resistant, and no sound but as raspy groan escaped.

"No words possibly suffice to accurately describe what my now tainted eyes beheld, but I must continue as best I am capable, for it is my worry that I may go mad if the sight is not siphoned onto leaf. It is my hope that by these words escaping my quill, perhaps the memory, too, shall escape my mind.

"There my father stood proud. I remained momentarily undiscovered. He was clad in lady's garments. It chills me to think on it. Here my memory clouds a bit. Things were….odd, obviously, and I find it difficult to discern what took place next. I believe it fell as such:

"I must have made some sort of din, though again I remember not, for my father then turned, still clad in the gown and shod in freshly-noticed feminine sandals, coal lining his wide, frightful eyes, and colour filling his all-too-moistened lips. He gasped and shrieked and yelled for me to take my leave.

"And that, I fear, is the sordid tale I experienced this very eve, and though I shall tell no-one, I believe the whole city knows even now, for circumstances are tense and whispers follow my poor, gender-confused father wherever he steps.

'Tis three hours now, since I discovered him, and he has yet to look in my direction, save to glare or scoff at my presence. I do pray this does nothing to mar our relationship."

Able to read no more, Faramir snapped the diary-er-journal…shut and later in the evening burnt the accursed book by his quarter's fire, hoping never to think of that wretched memory again, and still hoping beyond hope his father may have forgiven him somehow before his not-so-untimely death at the Citadel.


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